


When He Says My Name

by fromunderthegaytree



Category: BioShock
Genre: Atlas is Not Frank Fontaine, Fluff and Angst, Jack has a beard, Jack hates his name, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), No Homo, Organized Crime, Small Towns, This happens before the events of Bioshock, bad ending???, pretty much the memories Frank implanted into his head to mess with him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-05 01:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromunderthegaytree/pseuds/fromunderthegaytree
Summary: Before the events of Bioshock, Jack remembers his life. A plain life in a small town almost drives Jack to insanity until he meets a intriguing Irishman in a bar. An intense relationship is sparked as Atlas drags Jack into his world where his life depends on a notorious conman. Only chaos ensues as Jack's life is threatened and he discovers a web of lies which Atlas hides away from him.





	When He Says My Name

Something about his name bothered his very core. The way it was said by anyone seemed to sound like nails against a chalkboard. Ever since he was a child, he believed that nobody in Overlook could say his name without bothering him. His name just felt personal.

But the only person who said his name wasn’t even from the small town he grew up in. He wouldn’t have met them if his girlfriend hadn’t went to the bar to get drunk.

He enjoyed her company, loved her truly. His parents liked her. But she loved to press her lips against the nose of a bottle. Scotch was her favourite. She never told him when she went out. There was something about her actions which told Jack that he should’ve been bothered about these outings. He trusted her though. She was close to him like bark on a tree.

He didn’t know why but it saddened him when she said his name. It always felt like it was wrong.

It was late. His mother had already resigned to bed. His father stayed up. He was always sitting at the kitchen table until the crack of dawn, sometimes.

When he was younger, he was unable to sleep sometimes. When he crept downstairs, he saw his father often drinking from a brown bottle from his hiding spot near the banister. He never heard his father cry when he saw him at night. When he was twelve, he had asked his mother why his father stayed up so late. That day he asked her was when he learnt the word ‘insomnia’. A horrible condition that crippled his father’s wellbeing. And he could see it in his eyes, exhaustion chipping away at his very soul.

The telephone rang from the kitchen. He heard his father get up, moving to the cradle. Jack would’ve gotten up but he was drawn in with the book he was reading. He listened to his father speak in a hushed voice, low and strained from old age.

“Jack?” He called from the kitchen. There it was. His name. Which ultimately bothered him and he knew it would bother him until he laid dead and buried in the ground.

“Yes, pa?” He asked, trying his absolute best to make sure his dad heard him but not loud enough to wake his mother. He reached for the coffee table for his bookmark. It was his Uncle’s purple heart. The award was given to him because of his pa. He supposed his dad couldn’t bear to remember his brother. Maybe that’s why he stayed up. He couldn’t sleep without seeing Uncle Oz getting blown to chunks.

Jack never had to wait at the windowsill waiting for his father to come home from the war. His father was never fit to serve. He stuffed the Purple Heart and book underneath the tattered blanket on the couch. He knew his dad would get cross if he witnessed any object which reminded him of his only brother.

He walked into the kitchen, looking at his father hunched over with the phone in his hand. “Who is it?” Jack asked, taking it from him. He did so very gingerly. His father’s health was declining like a goddamn rollercoaster.

He knew neither of his parents would admit it but he was the person in the household that did most of the chores.

“It’s Anne.” The voice on the other end said. He could smell the cheap spirits on her breath through the phone. He could see her. She was probably holed up in some telephone booth, next to the bar. It was quarter to eleven and Jack was astounded that she was out on a work night.

“Are you drunk?” He asked, his eyebrows knitting together as he glanced over his shoulder at his dad. His dad was never the snobby aristocrat type who judged girls like Anne. But he didn’t think he was overly fond of her drinking habits.

“Yeah, come pick me up.” Her voice slurred like black treacle. He heaved a sigh, slapping his hand on the counter. He wasn’t disappointed that she was drinking but more so that he had to go to the bar that she frequented. The hellhole with the name ‘Silver Rush’. The only rush he had seen there were people rushing in or out. There was always the same patrons who were there.

It was utterly depressing to see drunks nursing pints of beer. Jack had been there a few times. One man told him about the affair his wife started. And because Overlook was a small town. He wasn’t surprised to hear women gossiping about it at the grocery store the next day. There were never any live bands. Never.

If Jack wanted to go drinking, he would’ve went somewhere with more of a pleasant atmosphere. Somewhere where jazz bands played, somewhere more progressive where lights flickered. He swore that he had to get to the city when he scared enough money up.

* * *

 

The drive was short and he pulled up next to the bar. He couldn’t see her anywhere. The sidewalk was empty except for the few stragglers who had finished their shifts. He got out of his car, walking over to the telephone booth. Maybe he’d find her asleep and slobbering. All he found was some dropped quarters. He knew that Anne was clumsy as all hell when she was drunk, but… There always the possibility in the rear of his mind which told him he could be wrong. He didn’t want to be a thief so he left the change where it was.

The worst case scenario that he had anticipated on the drive there was that she wanted to drink some more. It wasn’t uncommon for her to change her mind. He entered the bar, feeling himself getting engulfed with the strong smell of hand-rolled cigarettes. There were no bands but he could hear a melody. The only music was somebody singing an Ink Spots song.

After minutes of looking around, he assumed that she was using the can. He sat down on a barstool. He’d wait, he was patient enough. He looked at the bartender tending to familiar men. They were the kind that lost a lot. Their wealth, wives and children; hell, they only had the clothes on their backs and malt scotch. He had worked for a lot of them. Mostly for summer jobs.

He never really needed the money but some summers, he had to escape the farm. It was too quiet there sometimes. They were never kind. Not once had he seen a bit of gold peek from their crumby personalities. But he really couldn’t blame them. If he was one of them, he’d be drinking until his kidneys failed. But that was probably his pessimism talking.

He heard a voice beside him. He would never describe a voice as warm but that’s how the voice felt to him. All they said was a simple ‘hey’. He didn’t recognize the voice. Maybe he was too exhausted to pinpoint who the voice belonged to.

It was probably some drunk asking for him to buy them another drink. “What do you want?” He asked, watching the bartender.

He noticed a silver varicose vein bulging out of the bartender’s face. He was focusing on how the vein seemed to veil over his cheek like a spiderweb. He didn’t want to look at the guy next to him. He had a strong feeling that it was some drunk. Drunks in the bar usually had red faces like their hearts were permanently pumping blood into their faces. Or they were pale like spoiled milk, anemic from malnourishment, He’d feel sorry and buy him a drink.

His father told him once that he wasn’t naïve but he was too empathetic. Jack never agreed with his father but deep down in his bones: he knew he was right. The ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes never benefited him. That never spared him from heartache. If there was something Jack hated about himself, it was his overwhelming empathy.

“Easy, I was just sayin’ hi.” The voice was definitely a stranger’s. There was a lilt that stole his attention. It wasn’t from Kansas at all. He swore it was an Irish accent. He hesitated for a few seconds longer, he really didn’t want to be dragged into someone’s sob story. He reluctantly turned his head to look over at the stranger.

There was no red or pale skin in sight. The guy had a fairly healthy complexion which clashed against his dark hair. The bar’s dim lighting led to Jack squinting to get a better look at him. He had the typical ‘working-class’ look to him. From the 5 ‘o clock shadow or the bags under his eyes, he could tell he didn’t live a lavish life. He couldn’t tell if he was loaded or not. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot. It could’ve be from fatigue or intoxication.

“Hi.” He said. Short and simple. He was avoiding conversation. His teachers often told him that he was quiet. Quiet enough that people assumed he was mute or dumb. He found speaking difficult. Sometimes, he didn’t know what to say to people because if you said something, people over read them and then you’d regret your choice of words.

“Do you want a drink or what?” Jack asked. He was going to be blunt. He didn’t want to be toyed with. It was always the suave people who were able to manipulate him. Maybe he was naïve after all… Swivelling in his chair, he turned face to face with the stranger. His eyes flickered over to the bar top. There was already a stout glass filled with a bronze liquid. The ice cubes in it collided with the sides as the stranger swirled the glass in his hand.

“I’ve already got my glass, thanks.” He answered. The Irish intonation in his voice rising and falling as he replied. His stare wasn’t very intense but it nevertheless intimidating. Once Anne said something about eyes being the windows to the soul. It was from the bible, which Jack detested. But he brought that quote around with him like luggage. He didn’t want strangers to see what he was thinking about.

“What’re you doing here?” He couldn’t find any reason why anyone would drink at a hole in the wall bar unless they found life pointless. The bar was a shithole. But he also wondered why anybody came to Overlook. The population consisted of those grew up in Overlook. Almost no one came to Overlook or left.

“Drinking, what does it look like?” He raised an unkempt brow which made the harsh shadow underneath his brow grow. The subtle raise of his eyebrow bothered him. He felt like his question sounded stupid.

“No, I mean, in Kansas.” Jack laughed breathlessly. It was a small wheeze which parted his lips. He would’ve laughed louder if he didn’t feel so ashamed of his question. He earned a laugh from the stranger, it was nasally. He peered over at him.

His smile initially appeared solely sluggish before he noticed it was sardonic. “Work, money, America, the great land of opportunity.” He waved one hand in the air. He conducted an invisible orchestra with a drunken gesture of his hand.

“Yeah, but why in this shithole?” Jack couldn’t believe that he didn’t go to New York or Chicago. Those cities were chockfull of opportunity. There were tall steaming buildings which whispered promises of opportunities and wealth. In those cities, the little guy could get rich. His question was humourless but it affected the man as though it was a punchline. Laughing another nasally chortle, his head bowed.

“Some guy gave me a job offer.” He replied before opening his mouth in a frozen smile. He anticipated that Jack would ask another question. He might as well have brought a notepad to scrawl his answers down on. He was definitely drunk. His posture seemed to sway like a ship’s sail.

He leaned in, almost too close for Jack’s comfort. He could smell the cheap scotch on his breath. “We’re bookmakers.”

“Who’s the guy that offered you the job?” He had to admit that the stranger he was speaking to was the most intriguing man he had spoken to. The man remained leaning close to him. He pulled away when faced with the inquiry. His drunken smile fell into a frown before he shifted his gaze onto his glass.

“Some bloke… Fontaine.” Frank Fontaine was a mystery. He never saw him. He was a conman. Somebody who cheated people. The thin trust he shared with the stranger melted away when he thought about the fact that he was associated to him.

“You know him?” He asked, acknowledging the silence from Jack. He didn’t know what to say, he really never even encountered him.

“No.” The man’s lips pursed, dubious on whether Jack was telling the truth. “To be honest, my folks aren’t crazy about him.” That was the truth. Being upfront about his distrust of Fontaine was better than lying.

“Ah.” He nodded, relieved that he wasn’t given any news that Fontaine was a cheapskate. Momentarily, he felt guilty when he watched his worry disappear. But it wasn’t any of his business. “What do you do for a living?” Jack couldn’t help the smile that spread on his face. He remembered his uncle telling him that asking what folks did for a living was rude and nosey. There was a pang in his chest and he missed him terribly.

“I work on a farm.” The stranger’s eyes glimmered with interest before he cocked his head to the side.

“Does it pay well?” He was looking for a job. He was probably experienced with farming and wondered if Jack could put in a good word with his employer.

“Uh, doesn’t pay…” He mumbled. He averted his eyes to avoid seeing the man’s reaction.

“What? You’re a slave or somethin’?” He chuckled. Jack grinned at the remark. It felt like he was a slave sometimes. He worked long hours, lifting heavy equipment; doing anything his father couldn’t do. It was his own father who told him what to do. It shouldn’t have bothered him but there was something gritty about his lack of autonomy. His father chose and he obeyed. He noticed why it bothered him so much when his father told him what to do. But he kept the sinister feeling about it deep in his subconscious; playing it off as a joke helped him survive.

“No, no…” Jack laughed into the back of his hand. The stranger’s smile brightened when he witnessed the impact of his joke. “My girlfriend works at a diner, ‘The Rocket’, I take her shifts sometimes.” The job was miles better than working on the farm. On the farm, all you had was your thoughts and the wind to keep you company. At least ‘The Rocket’ was home to the town’s most vibrant characters. The likable kids that he went to high school with. Besides, he could stand the smell of burgers more than the smell of manure.

“I see.” He nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’ll go there sometime, bother you or somethin’.” He was only goofing around, he was sure. He had to restrain himself from pleading the man to come see him. He almost did. He was extremely desperate for a friend. He was getting sick of seeing only his folks and Anne for the entirety of a week.

“I’m Atlas.” He introduced. He had a name. What a weird name, nothing like John or Christopher. The name took him back to high school. His teacher had been talking about New York before they conversation landed on the sculpture of Atlas. The titan that was sworn to hold the heavens.

“Doesn’t sound very Irish.” He admitted. Atlas rolled his bloodshot eyes and poked his tongue in his cheek.

“Fine, what did you expect my name to be?” He wasn’t hiding his smile.

There was something about his smile that reminded him of a movie star. The great smile which revealed pearly whites reserved to make the public fawn over them. The kind of smile which made people think a movie star had to be nicest guy in the world even when in reality, they had hearts of stone. Except Atlas didn’t make Jack think of someone who wore a charming façade, he wore a movie star smile and he probably did have a personality that was charming as all hell.

“I thought your name would be something like… Michael.” He shrugged. He couldn’t think of any Irish names but he didn’t think that Atlas was an Irish name for an Irish name. It was a name for Greek man.

“So, what about you, boyo?” He jabbed his upper arm, trying to prompt an answer from him. He was hesitant, stalling his reply. He didn’t want to tell him. Because then he’d feel anger flame in his chest whenever he heard Atlas say his name. He wouldn’t be so interesting anymore. He’d be like everyone else. That golden personality would wither.

“Don’t call me boyo, I’m not a child.” He muttered. He really hated how his relatives treated him like a fragile kid. Maybe it was because he almost died when his mother gave birth to him. But that was then and this was now.

“Can’t help it, I’m thirty-nine.” He shrugged.

“Oh.”

“You didn’t tell me your name.” Goddamn it, was he persistent. He drummed his fingers against the bar top. The noise crawled into his brain where it begun to bug him. He simply opted to staring at Atlas with an alienating look.

“I’m Jack Wynand.” He added his last name, in hopes to persuade Atlas to address him by anything other than ‘Jack’.

He glanced over by the washrooms and saw nobody. Where did she go? Was she asleep? He didn’t know how long he had spoken to him but it was enough. He got up, beginning to head to the washroom.

“Where are you going?” He heard him call from his stool.

“Hey, did you see a redhead girl leave?” He asked, taking a few steps towards Atlas. A look of recognition crossed his face.

He nodded slowly, “yeah, I bought her a drink, lovely lass.” He cooed. The way he spoke about his girlfriend sent shocks of discomfort to Jack.

He was envious. Deep underneath layers of lies he told himself, he knew. He knew that he was jealous of Anne. He wanted to be described as a ‘lovely lad’ by Atlas. The jealousy made the tips of his ears burn. “Yeah, that’s my girlfriend.” He mentioned, biting the inside of his cheek until it felt ragged.

“You’re lucky.” He whistled out. Atlas’ comment made him feel even more miserable. He sure felt sorry that he came out that night. Wrapping his uncle’s motorcycle jacket closer around him.

Atlas had a look which he couldn’t comprehend; and it wasn’t because of the establishment’s lighting He scrutinized it and realized that his small smile said that he knew something he didn’t. He felt anxious. Had he been talking to a serial killer all along? Before he jumped to the conclusion that he had been speaking his girlfriend’s killer, Atlas cleared up. “I paid for her cab, I’m sorry that you drove all the way out here, lad.”

A wave of relief washed over him.

“Right.” Atlas had to be really kind if he paid for his girlfriend’s cab. “Thanks.” He started for the door, knowing that he could go home and sleep. He didn’t bother saying goodbye. Goodbyes were always grim to him, the end of a conversation or the end of something good.

“Wait, stay awhile.” Atlas said, pleading for him to sit and speak to him a little longer. He almost did. He stopped and thought about having a much longer conversation. He liked speaking to Atlas. He wasn’t the guy who interrupted people to fill in his conceited share of the conversation. Neither was he the guy who ignored someone completely. Even if he was as silent as field mouse, you could count on him listening.

“Can’t.” He sighed, looking over his shoulder at Atlas. His lips pressed into a frown and his eyebrows knit together. Knowing that he was disappointed made him feel better. Atlas actually did care if he left or not, he truly did enjoy his presence.

“See you around, Jack.” There it was. His name. The word which made him boil when he had heard it from his family members. He never was able to tell what he hated about it: the person saying it or himself.

* * *

 

He left.

His head was flooded with pieces of their conversation. He really never met somebody like Atlas. It was only when he crawled into bed that he had a realization.

When Atlas had said his name: he didn’t feel his stomach churn. It was like Atlas taking his name before wrapping it in giftwrap and ribbon before returning it to him. Turning something as ugly as his name, something as ugly as him and making it... making him sound special.

Jack couldn’t sleep that night.


End file.
